Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. The lad looked alarmed. "To-morrow it will be mine. He has no imagination, no real generosity. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. " "Caught you napping, eh?" rejoined Ireton, with a laugh. Meanwhile, Mr. ’ ‘Yes, but what is it, Jacques?’ demanded the lady.
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